JINGLE ON MY SON!

1.8.17

The screenin the cornerflashes celebrity imagesabove the hunched headsof craggy regulars.Subtitles punctuatethe horror of Syria,shallowness of Beckham’s mouthgabbinglike a demented fishover supping plebs.Their talk is of aches and painsand scraping through,their question time has no answers,only wearyresignations.The TV mocksthe ordinarystrugglesto bring up soft babieswith tough futures.The thingis forced upon us,dumped upon us,scoffingat the weakon cheap beer.It says: BORIS JOHNSON IS IN BERLIN.Well, we are drinking in Whitley Bayand HE,he can piss off.In the Fire Station,we have thirsts to slake,bets to be placedon whether we’ll make itthrough to another tomorrowjust the sameand just as unjust.